Page 36 of The Girl and the Cobra

For some reason, the wordsexjust doesn’t want to come out, so I settle for, “More.”

Tristan lets out a haggard breath, and before he flops onto his side next to me, he straightens out my shirt. The man would gladly keep going, but at the same time, he won’t push me to do anything I’m not fully ready for—and that’s something I appreciate more than he can know.

I roll onto my side to face him. His head rests a few inches away on my pillow, and though he’s so close his face is a little blurry, I still study him in the daylight. This is the longest we’ve been around each other, not to mention the closest; it allows me to see every single scar on his face and his neck.

For some reason, I feel the need to touch him, so I bring a hand to his face again and lightly touch one of his scars. I just can’t imagine him doing all of this to himself. None of these scars are from suicide attempts; he told me he didn’t want to kill himself, he wanted to die. A distinction most people might not understand, but I do.

I do, because I’m on the other side of the spectrum. I want the pain to end. Some days I feel like I can’t take it anymore and death sounds like a mighty fine alternative.

My roaming hand falls to his neck, near the collar, and I gently touch a scar that doesn’t look like the others. Unlike the others, it’s not a thin line. It’s messier, non-uniform. No bigger than a quarter, but still a noticeable scar marring his flesh.

“What’s this one from?” I ask, half-expecting Tristan to pull away or take my hand in his to move it off his neck.

But he doesn’t. He holds my stare with an intensity that makes my heart skip a beat. “I got shot.”

I swallow hard as my finger traces the outer edge of the scar. A bullet hole. Of course. I should’ve guessed that’s what it was from. “Someone tried to kill you because of what you did?”

“No.” When I give him a questioning look, he clarifies, “They’re a good shot. They just wanted to bring me down. Here.” Tristan’s hand taps his leg. “Here.” That hand moves to his stomach, on the side, and then it moves to cup my hand on his neck. “And here.”

It took three bullets to bring him down? Three bullets that, if I’m understanding correctly, were aimed there on purpose. Wow. Tristan must be a machine, an animal when he sets his mind to it.

Maybe it’s wrong of me, but the words are out of my mouth before I can stop them: “I’m glad you didn’t die.”

Tristan’s hand roams up my wrist and arm, curling around my back and holding me close to him. “You’re the only one that feels that way,” he whispers. “And if you knew…” Shadows cross his face, and he shuts his eyes and sighs.

“You can tell me, if you want. You don’t have to, but I’m here. I can listen. I won’t judge. I… I’m the last person who should judge.”

He opens his eyes and stares at me, and before he says a word, I know in my heart of hearts he doesn’t want to talk about it. Doesn’t want to tell me. Maybe he will, someday, but that day is not today.

Maybe someday I’ll know who Shay is.

Chapter Fifteen – Mabel

Dr. Wolf stares at me from behind his glasses. His legs are crossed, a notepad resting on his lap. He holds a pen, though he doesn’t write anything down with it; he mostly just fiddles with it. “How is your ankle doing, Mabel?”

“It’s still a little sore, but better. I don’t think I twisted it as bad as I thought,” I answer him. I sit on the same chair as always in his downstairs office. It’s our first session since I hurt myself. Honestly? There’s a lot to talk about, but I don’t know if I should.

The dream I had about Jordan. The guilt I feel. How I pretty much laid around with Tristan all day yesterday. How I can still feel the ghostly sensation of his lips on mine.

“I’m glad you didn’t hurt yourself too badly,” Dr. Wolf says. He watches me for a few moments, and I must have it written on my face, because the next thing he says is “You seem to have a lot on your mind today. Care to share?”

“Um” is all I can say.

“Is it about your brother?” Dr. Wolf’s green eyes twinkle as he asks, “Or is it about Tristan? Or, perhaps, both?”

Ugh, this guy is too good. If he can read that from my face, there’s no hope of keeping anything a secret from him—including my feelings toward Tristan. “Both, I guess.”

“Elaborate.”

I bite my inner cheek. “Um, when Tristan found me in the woods, he…” I can’t look at Dr. Wolf when I say this next part; I have to stare at my empty lap. “We kissed. It was nice. It made me feel… good. Even though I was cold and my ankle hurt, it was the best I’ve felt in a long time.”

Dr. Wolf doesn’t say a word, but his disproval is written across his face—then again, he kind of always looks like that.

“I know he’s dangerous and violent, but I feel safe with him. When he carried me back here, it was like I didn’t have to worry about anything. I knew he’d take care of me. You… you probably don’t think it’s a good idea for us to—” I cough, feeling awkward. “—have feelings for each other.”

“Of course, I can’t say I approve. However, your traumas are very similar in origin. As much as some might say it’s crazy, it also makes perfect sense.”

“You’re not mad?”

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